resignation to the end
by tunnelOFdawn
Summary: Natsume Week 2018 Prompt (July 1): Natsume's Birthday. Turning 18 is a cause for celebration for the sightless, but for Natsume and his family, it's a nightmare come true.


"I don't want to turn 18," Natsume confides, clutching Madara close. "I don't want to be an exorcist."

"No point in wishing otherwise," Madara grumbles with a gruff nuzzle. "You're lucky. It used to be that they'd rip you right out of your mother's arms if they realized you had the sight."

* * *

How funny, Natsume thinks, that exorcists are the bogeymen in the eyes of the sightless. "If you don't eat your vegetables, the exorcists will come," parents would scold. "Their yōkai will snatch you right up."

How funny, Natsume thinks, that exorcists became interchangeable with yōkai in the eyes of the sightless. "Like calls to like," one of his relatives had sniffed in disdain.

* * *

"Happy birthday, brat," his relative says, begrudging. "How old are you now?" The barest facade of interest coats her face like clear resin on wood.

"I'm 5 now," Natsume murmurs. He stares down at the floor; the polished wood shines back.

"Well, don't expect anything from me," she sniffs. "I already waste enough money on you."

Natsume nods, not daring to make eye contact. Surprise is the furthest thing from his mind. Resignation is his most familiar feeling. He does not hope for more.

* * *

Dawn and her rosy fingers graze the sky in soft pinks and oranges. Birds chirp and cheep as they hop across the grass in search of a meal. The trees wave welcomingly in the wind, offering shelter to the birds who fly away at any sign of movement. How lovely, Natsume thinks. How he wishes to be a bird—free and unencumbered. Let him fly away—far, far away. Oh, to be a bird!

A sharp rap at the door drags Natsume away from the window. The door slides opens and reveals the sour face of his distant uncle. "Get your schoolbag. I don't have time to drop you off later," he says.

"I could take the bus instead," Natsume ventures. Ever since he's moved here, his uncle has been dropping him off to school. It's odd. Most students walk to school or take the bus.

The man sneers, which, truthfully, isn't all that different from his usual expression. "They don't want your kind out in public," he spits out. Ah, Natsume realizes, his uncle believes he's doing a public service by martyring himself as a chauffeur. He always knew his uncle wasn't fond of exorcists and yōkai, but to inconvenience himself for the sake of a dislike hints closely to a deeper-seated disdain.

"It's your birthday, isn't it?" he asks abruptly. It's shocking that he would know.

Natsume nods. "I'm 10 now."

"Hmm, shame that those exorcists raised the drafting age. In my day, you'd be out of my house by the time you started with your freakish tales."

He exits the room, leaving Natsume to catch up.

* * *

Schoolchildren do not call Natsume "liar" when he shares his encounters with yōkai.

They call him "exorcist".

It haunts his dreams.

* * *

Natsume's life is a countdown to age 18. Ever since he and his relatives realized he had the sight, they had never stopped reminding him of his impending enlistment into the hallowed ranks of the exorcists.

In another world (in his dreams of freedom), being an exorcist holds no gravitas. It's a relic of the religiously devoted and superstitious—merely lip service to the idea of purifying bad energy. Light some incense, ring a bell, chant some scripture and you'll tell your old-fashioned grandmother that your new house has been purified. She'll smile in contentment and you'll move on with your lives. No thought to spare on the supernatural.

In this world, yōkai are a real threat and even those without the sight are affected by them. Yōkai encounters are a common phenomena easily combated by an inducted exorcist. However, without the sight, defense and offense against the invisible and powerful is futile. Even a spiritually strong monk can merely bumble his way through purification rituals. There is no precision. The sightless are hammers; the exorcists are scalpels.

One of the leading exorcist clans is the Matoba clan. Famous for their exorcist bloodline and their endless recruitment of new blood into their ranks, they are monolithic. To defy a Matoba is to court ruination. Although loathed by the sightless masses, no one can deny their power.

The Matoba are the last resort when it comes to yōkai. Called upon for the worst yōkai, low-ranking and mid-ranking yōkai avoid their territory. Even lesser exorcist clans engage in avoidance. They are the strongest voice on the exorcist council. Theirs is an unbroken lineage spanning hundreds of years in service of the people, or so they proclaim. There is a sliver of truth in this proclamation. They are known for their fierce defense of humanity (and even better known for their disdain for the yōkai and humans that do not contribute or benefit them in any way).

* * *

"If this was a few years ago, I wouldn't have minded going with them," Natsume says. "I would've had nothing to lose…" When his eyes were glass beads and his heart cloistered away, he would have welcomed the release from sightless unease into exorcist purpose. He would have thought that joining their ranks would be like finding home.

Now, Natsume's heart is heavy as he contemplates leaving his home—the Fujiwaras and his friends. To leave this tranquil town for a cold labyrinthine compound will be a painful ordeal. His heart clenches at the thought. A choking, clawing sense of sadness overcomes him. His eyes prickle with the premonition of tears. He had thought his days of crying were over. How foolish he had been to hope.

* * *

"You should be honored," Matoba says mildly, "that I, a clan leader, have come to personally pick you up." Serene menace drips off him, enhanced by the upward contortion of his mouth. Natsume would call it a smile if that wasn't a woeful misrepresentation. He's continually surprised that Matoba is just a human exorcist, and not a high-ranking yōkai, what with the amount of casual menace he manages to exude. There is a certainty of purpose in Matoba, reminiscent of the more older and cunning yōkai. He is clear-skinned and sharp-boned in the same manner a yōkai mantles himself in humanity—inhuman perfection thinly spread. There is no one underneath.

"Invite me in, Natsume Takashi. I should like to introduce myself to your, hmm, _family_ ," Matoba laughs.

"Please come in, Matoba…san."

Madara yowls in protest, fiercely circling Natsume's feet. "Boy, you ought to leave the trash where it belongs—outside!"

Matoba walks into the house with an indulgent smirk, barely paying attention to Madara's protests. His shiki servant trails along obediently, as quiet as ever.

"Happy birthday, Natsume."

* * *

"I don't want to be an exorcist," Natsume says firmly. Shigeru's hand rests on his shoulder in silent support. Touko stands slightly in front of Natsume. He wishes she would stand behind him. He worries, oh, how he worries.

"My, Natsume, did you think we ever had a choice?" Matoba chides. "You know very well the law. Do you reject your duties?"

"I can help people, humans and yōkai without joining you."

"How naïve. It's not about helping people, nor is it about joining me. You know, it's the sightless, like your foster parents, that have enacted this law. You've already been added to the records. You cannot escape."

"If you think we're letting him go without a fight, then—," Touko hisses, fiercely maternal. A bitter laugh escapes Matoba, cutting her off.

"You all think I'm the villain? You fools, do you think exorcists enjoy being confined to our estates and only brought out for exorcisms? They've segregated us. They're afraid. So very afraid of us, the big bad exorcists who can control the yōkai, as if we're not human ourselves."

Natsume stares at Matoba in silence, stunned by this side of him. In all his encounters with him, Matoba had always been a powerful, confident figure. He could always rely on him to be manipulative and looking out for his best interests. He could always rely on his harsh competence. But now he seems so _human_ and humanly tired. How terrifying; how unsettling. His worldview skews off its axis.

Who's the true villain, if there's one at all? Humanity is its own enemy, Natsume had always known. Yōkai were never as convoluted as humans could be. They knew their purpose and went on with it. You could trust most yōkai to be transparent with their intentions. They could rip out your heart, while humans could act heartlessly with a smile.

"I'm a law-abiding citizen," Matoba smiles. "Who are you, Natsume Takashi?"

"Is there no way to contest this?" Shigeru interrupts. His gentle calm has morphed into quiet contemplation.

"There are no exceptions," Matoba says. "A man like you, I'm sure, must have already read the bylaws."

Madara harrumphs. "Hmph, human laws are easily broken." A sliver of a smile works its way on Natsume's face. He can always count on sensei to be disdainful of human things.

"Easily broken, to be sure, but all the more easily prosecuted. How unfortunate would it be if the kind Fujiwaras had to go in debt to pay the fines, only for Natsume to still have to go. You can't escape. Hiding can only protect you for so long.

"It's time to go, Natsume," Matoba concludes with an uncharacteristic pleading note. "It would be a shame, I'm sure, if the government learned that Tanuma Kaname has the sight too." From pleading to threatening in a whiplashing turn of events that leaves Natsume heady.

"But he doesn't! He can't see anything—just shadows."

"Even a shadow is more substantial than nothing in the eyes of the sightless."

Madara hisses. Matoba flicks a glance at him. "How fortunate it is that we allow pre-existing servants. Now come along, Natsume."

Resignation slides onto Natsume like a well-worn coat. It's the perfect size for Natsume and oh, how it _clings_.

"Oh, Takashi!" Touko cries, flinging her arms around him in a tight embrace. She knows that Natsume would do anything for his friends. Now that he has known love, he is all the more hesitant to let go. Shigeru wraps his arms around the both of them. Natsume, in his own awkward way, hugs them back. He inhales shudderingly. The soft, clean scent of their detergent wafts off them. Yesterday was laundry day—his last laundry day, he amends.

Matoba pointedly taps his watch with an arched brow. Natsume reluctantly lets go of Touko and Shigeru. He bends down and holds Madara in his arms, futilely seeking comfort. He clutches him close with nary a sound from Madara, who would usually complain at being squeezed like a plushie.

"Just because you're leaving, it doesn't mean we'll stop loving you, Takashi. I know you'll think such silly thoughts. We're still family. You'll always have a home here. A-and, when you get a chance, remember to call us. Tell me when you can come visit or when we can come visit. This isn't the end, Takashi," Touko pleads.

"Remain true to yourself, Takashi," Shigeru says. "I believe in you."

Natsume nods. He cannot bear the thought of opening his mouth. A sob will surely escape. His mouth quivers into a frown. He furrows his brows in an effort to stopper his tears. Matoba guides him out the door. He's in shock—so numb inside that it's become a comfort. He hasn't even said goodbye to his friends. He's been putting it off in the desperate hope that the outcome would change. How foolish of him.  
Natsume turns his head for one last glance at his home—his former home. The door is still open. How welcoming, as if he could walk back into home and never leave again. How the entryway beckons him to enter, as if he does not have to move into the Matoba compound.

He hasn't packed anything yet.

How heartbreaking it will be for the Fujiwaras to pack up his life and send it to him. Maybe they'll ship it. Maybe one of Matoba's shiki servants will pick it up. They'll be surprised to see the boxes float in the air but then they'll realize it's the work of a yōkai. They'll droop in resignation. Touko will sigh softly and Shigeru will frown. Childless once again, they'll never move out of a standstill. They'll be waiting patiently and rushing to the phone at every ring, ring. They'll petition for visits and be rejected by sightless officials (those exorcists are too dangerous for the sightless, they'll explain in empty words). Come home, they'll whisper in the silence. No answer but the wind whistling through the air as fall comes by and transitions into winter. Goodbye summer.

Happy birthday.


End file.
